Marta Perry's Blog, page 12

Christian Fiction Scavenger Hunt coming here!

If you love Christian fiction, you won't want to miss the fun at the Christian Fiction Scavenger Hunt, starting on May 31st at noon. This is one of the stops, so you'll come here to collect one of the clues that could lead you to a terrific prize--loads of free books!

Be sure to stop by for a chance to enter!

Book Giveaway Opportunities

I'm appearing on several blogs this month, some of which are offering giveaways of my latest book in the Pleasant Valley series, Hannah's Joy. Here's are a couple of opportunities if you're interested!

FreshFiction.com is such a neat site for finding all sorts of things about popular fiction. Every time I go there, I end up browsing for way too long! There's a blog post there on the Challenge of Writing Amish Fiction, as well as a giveaway contest.

http://freshfiction.com/page.php?id=4137

Author Trish Perry also has a great website, and I really enjoyed the questions she asked in her interview. Pop over there to join the discussion and sign up to win a free copy.

http://trishperry.com

Blessings,
Marta

Amish Fiction--Hannah's Joyi

I hope you'll enjoy a preview of HANNAH'S JOY, available in store May 1st! HANNAH’S JOY Chapter One A man in Army fatigues stepped off the bus at the Pleasant Valley stop. Hannah Conroy clutched the stroller handle to keep from falling, fighting the irrational surge of joy that turned in an instant to ashes. It wasn’t Travis. It was an unknown young soldier, moving into the welcoming arms of his family—mother holding him, fighting back tears, father standing stiffly as if to deny his emotions, a girl of about ten waving a welcome sign. Not Travis. Travis had lain beneath a marker in Arlington National Cemetery for over a year. He wasn’t here on a warm September day in Pleasant Valley. Two women in Plain dress stopped next to her on the sidewalk, their faces blurred by the tears she wouldn’t let fall. One reached out a tentative hand. “Are you all right? You are Hannah, ain’t so? Paula Schatz’s niece?” She nodded. She couldn’t cry. Jamie would be frightened if he saw his mother in tears. But he was almost asleep in the stroller, one chubby hand still grasping his toy dog. “I’m fine.” Hannah almost managed a smile. “Thank you.” “You’re going into the bakery, ja? Let us help you get the stroller inside.” The woman motioned to the other…a girl in her early teens, Hannah saw now…who pulled the door open, setting the bell jangling. Together they maneuvered the stroller inside Aunt Paula’s bakery. “Thank you,” she said again. The grief and pain ebbed, leaving her as lost as a leaf in the wind. “It’s nothing.” The woman patted her arm with a feather-light touch, the girl nodded, and they were gone. Aunt Paula, as round and comforting as one of her own dumplings, glanced up from the customer she was serving, her eyes clouding when she saw Hannah’s face. By the time Hannah reached the kitchen door, Aunt Paula was there, wiping her hands on the white apron she wore over her traditional Old Order Mennonite dress, its tiny print faded from many washings. “Hannah? Was ist letz?” Aunt Paula spoke English most of the time, but in moments of stress was apt to slip into Pennsylvania Dutch. “What’s wrong? I saw Leah Glick and her daughter helping you.” “Nothing.” Hannah bent, the action hiding her face for a moment, and lifted Jamie from the stroller. He was relaxed and drowsy, a precious, heavy armload now at eighteen months. “I’m fine.” She didn’t want Aunt Paula worrying about her. It was enough that her aunt had made a home here for her and Jamie. But Hannah couldn’t stop herself from taking a glance at the window. The family, faces animated with love, moved toward a car. Aunt Paula followed her gaze. “Ach, I see.” Her voice was soft. “I know. After your uncle passed, I’d see a man with wavy hair like his, or his way of walking, and my heart would stop, as if it reacted faster than my brain did.” “It’s been over a year.” Hannah cradled Jamie close, and he snuggled his face into her shoulder, his soft breath against her neck. “I’m better. But sometimes—“ “Ja. Sometimes.” Aunt Paula patted her. “I know.” The bell jingled on the bakery door, and Aunt Paula turned to greet the man in Amish garb. Hannah had nearly forgotten, in all the years since she’d lived here as a child, the peculiar mix of Amish, horse-and-buggy Mennonite, black bumper Mennonite, and English that made Pleasant Valley so unique. William Brand was Amish, and he worked with his cousin Caleb in the cabinetry shop down the street. Hannah had learned that much from him, but it had taken persistence. William stuttered, and like many stutterers, he took refuge in silence much of the time. Banishing thoughts of the past, Hannah moved to the counter, smiling. William was silent enough already. She didn’t want him to think she was avoiding speaking to him. “Good morning.” He ducked his head in a nod. Tall for an Amish man, and broad-shouldered, he wore the traditional Amish black broadfall trousers with a blue shirt and suspenders, the usual straw hat on his head. In his mid-twenties, William was probably a year or two younger than she was, but his fresh color and the shyness in his blue eyes made him seem even younger. Next to him, she felt ancient. And what did he make of her, with her denim skirt, pink lipstick, and curling ponytail? Did he find it odd that Paula Schatz had such a modern niece? “H-H-Hannah,” he managed, as if determined to say her name. Then he looked at her son, and his face softened. He held out a work-roughened hand, and Jamie latched onto it, saying something that might have been an attempt at William’s name. “S-sleepy time, Jamie?” Jamie shook his head vigorously, but the movement was interrupted by a huge yawn that showed every one of his baby teeth, and they both laughed. Funny, how William’s stutter seemed to ease when he spoke to Jamie. Once, a lifetime ago, she’d planned to become a speech therapist, and her interest stirred. “He just doesn’t want to admit he’s tired. I thought he was going to fall asleep in the stroller,” she said, reminding herself to speak naturally to William. Talking with a stutterer required more patience than many people had. “H-h-he’s a-afraid he’ll m-m-miss something.” “That’s for sure.” She tickled Jamie’s belly, loving the way he chuckled, eyes crinkling. Aunt Paula returned to the counter, carrying two coffees in foam cups and a white bag. “There you are, William, your usual coffee, just the way you and Caleb like it. And a couple of crullers to tide you over to lunch.” “D-d-denke.” He handed her the money. With another smile for Jamie, he went quickly out, perhaps relieved not to have to engage in any further conversation. His straw hat shielded his face from Hannah’s view as he passed the window. She stood watching his tall figure for a moment, and then went to get Jamie’s plastic cup of milk from the small refrigerator behind the counter. She focused her mind on him, trying not to let it stray toward those moments on the sidewalk. “Has William always stuttered?” Aunt Paula leaned against the display case, seeming ready for a comfortable gossip. “I don’t know about always. You don’t remember the Brands from when you were growing up?” She shook her head. “I was only eight when we left, after all.” She handed Jamie the cup. Of course Aunt Paula would remember that. How could Paula forget when her beloved younger sister had up and left the community, left the church, left her family, and incidentally left behind all Hannah’s security? “No reason you should, I guess,” Aunt Paula said. “Anyway, it’s a big family, and William is the youngest. His mamm and daad were both sickly off and on, and it seemed like William kind of got lost in the shuffle, what with his oldest brother, Isaac, taking over the farm and always barking orders at the younger ones. I’m not sure when the stuttering started, but it was before William went to school.” Hannah nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. William hadn’t had it easy. “That’s typical. It’s usually in those early years when a child is starting to talk. How did the family handle it? Did they get help for him?” “Not that I know of.” Aunt Paula frowned. “I think the schoolteacher tried to help him, but seems like the other kinder were always impatient, finishing his sentences for him, acting like he was...well, slow.” “I don’t think he’s that.” She’d seen quick understanding in William’s face in their few conversations, even when he didn’t speak. “Ach, William’s bright enough, and the best thing that could have happened to him was going to work with his cousin Caleb in the shop. He’s got a gift with his hands, so Caleb says, and Caleb’s a master woodworker himself, so he’d know. The boy will maybe find a little respect for himself there.” “Not a boy,” Hannah murmured, taking the cup from Jamie, who was nearly asleep on her shoulder. She rubbed his back, cherishing the feel of his small warm body against her. “No, you’re right. He’s not.” Aunt Paula touched Jamie’s brown curls in a quick caress. “William seems younger than he is, no doubt because of the stutter.” Hannah nodded, moving toward the stairs that led up to the apartment above the shop. She would put Jamie in his crib and— “I’m nearly forgetting.” Aunt Paula’s voice lifted. “That’s what you were studying in college, wasn’t it? Before you got married, I mean?” “Speech therapy.” That had been her only goal, until Travis came along. But Travis had loved her. It had seemed meant, that they should love each other and get married and make a home for each other always. Always hadn’t lasted very long. Just a few short years of moving from one Army base to another. She’d been pregnant when his unit shipped out to Afghanistan. Travis had never seen his son, and she’d quickly learned that a mother with a young child and an incomplete education had very little chance of making a home of any kind, even with the military’s death benefits. “You could help William.” Aunt Paula, not able to follow Hannah’s thoughts, smiled broadly. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. You can teach William, help him get over his stutter.” “No, no, I couldn’t,” she said quickly. “I’m not qualified. I never finished, and besides—“ “Well, you’re as near to qualified as William is likely to get,” Aunt Paula said briskly. “It would be an act of charity to help him.” She said it as if that were the defining argument, as it probably was to anyone brought up Mennonite, accustomed as they were to the idea of service. But Hannah hadn’t been Mennonite since she was a child, and as much as she’d like to help, her instincts told her it was a bad idea to get involved in William’s problems. “I really don’t—“ “Just think about it.” Aunt Paula patted her shoulder. “You’ll see I’m right. It would be good for you, too, to make use of your education.” Hannah hesitated, but then she nodded. Agreeing to think about it was easy. Marshaling the arguments against it was more difficult. Especially since she didn’t want to use the strongest one—that she intended to go back to the outside world as soon as she could swing it financially. The familiar worry settled on her, darkening the sunny day. How long could she go on staying here, accepting Aunt Paula’s home and her help, without her aunt expecting Hannah to commit to her way of life?

Hannah's Joy Excerpt

I hope you'll enjoy a preview of HANNAH'S JOY, available in store May 1st! HANNAH’S JOY Chapter One A man in Army fatigues stepped off the bus at the Pleasant Valley stop. Hannah Conroy clutched the stroller handle to keep from falling, fighting the irrational surge of joy that turned in an instant to ashes. It wasn’t Travis. It was an unknown young soldier, moving into the welcoming arms of his family—mother holding him, fighting back tears, father standing stiffly as if to deny his emotions, a girl of about ten waving a welcome sign. Not Travis. Travis had lain beneath a marker in Arlington National Cemetery for over a year. He wasn’t here on a warm September day in Pleasant Valley. Two women in Plain dress stopped next to her on the sidewalk, their faces blurred by the tears she wouldn’t let fall. One reached out a tentative hand. “Are you all right? You are Hannah, ain’t so? Paula Schatz’s niece?” She nodded. She couldn’t cry. Jamie would be frightened if he saw his mother in tears. But he was almost asleep in the stroller, one chubby hand still grasping his toy dog. “I’m fine.” Hannah almost managed a smile. “Thank you.” “You’re going into the bakery, ja? Let us help you get the stroller inside.” The woman motioned to the other…a girl in her early teens, Hannah saw now…who pulled the door open, setting the bell jangling. Together they maneuvered the stroller inside Aunt Paula’s bakery. “Thank you,” she said again. The grief and pain ebbed, leaving her as lost as a leaf in the wind. “It’s nothing.” The woman patted her arm with a feather-light touch, the girl nodded, and they were gone. Aunt Paula, as round and comforting as one of her own dumplings, glanced up from the customer she was serving, her eyes clouding when she saw Hannah’s face. By the time Hannah reached the kitchen door, Aunt Paula was there, wiping her hands on the white apron she wore over her traditional Old Order Mennonite dress, its tiny print faded from many washings. “Hannah? Was ist letz?” Aunt Paula spoke English most of the time, but in moments of stress was apt to slip into Pennsylvania Dutch. “What’s wrong? I saw Leah Glick and her daughter helping you.” “Nothing.” Hannah bent, the action hiding her face for a moment, and lifted Jamie from the stroller. He was relaxed and drowsy, a precious, heavy armload now at eighteen months. “I’m fine.” She didn’t want Aunt Paula worrying about her. It was enough that her aunt had made a home here for her and Jamie. But Hannah couldn’t stop herself from taking a glance at the window. The family, faces animated with love, moved toward a car. Aunt Paula followed her gaze. “Ach, I see.” Her voice was soft. “I know. After your uncle passed, I’d see a man with wavy hair like his, or his way of walking, and my heart would stop, as if it reacted faster than my brain did.” “It’s been over a year.” Hannah cradled Jamie close, and he snuggled his face into her shoulder, his soft breath against her neck. “I’m better. But sometimes—“ “Ja. Sometimes.” Aunt Paula patted her. “I know.” The bell jingled on the bakery door, and Aunt Paula turned to greet the man in Amish garb. Hannah had nearly forgotten, in all the years since she’d lived here as a child, the peculiar mix of Amish, horse-and-buggy Mennonite, black bumper Mennonite, and English that made Pleasant Valley so unique. William Brand was Amish, and he worked with his cousin Caleb in the cabinetry shop down the street. Hannah had learned that much from him, but it had taken persistence. William stuttered, and like many stutterers, he took refuge in silence much of the time. Banishing thoughts of the past, Hannah moved to the counter, smiling. William was silent enough already. She didn’t want him to think she was avoiding speaking to him. “Good morning.” He ducked his head in a nod. Tall for an Amish man, and broad-shouldered, he wore the traditional Amish black broadfall trousers with a blue shirt and suspenders, the usual straw hat on his head. In his mid-twenties, William was probably a year or two younger than she was, but his fresh color and the shyness in his blue eyes made him seem even younger. Next to him, she felt ancient. And what did he make of her, with her denim skirt, pink lipstick, and curling ponytail? Did he find it odd that Paula Schatz had such a modern niece? “H-H-Hannah,” he managed, as if determined to say her name. Then he looked at her son, and his face softened. He held out a work-roughened hand, and Jamie latched onto it, saying something that might have been an attempt at William’s name. “S-sleepy time, Jamie?” Jamie shook his head vigorously, but the movement was interrupted by a huge yawn that showed every one of his baby teeth, and they both laughed. Funny, how William’s stutter seemed to ease when he spoke to Jamie. Once, a lifetime ago, she’d planned to become a speech therapist, and her interest stirred. “He just doesn’t want to admit he’s tired. I thought he was going to fall asleep in the stroller,” she said, reminding herself to speak naturally to William. Talking with a stutterer required more patience than many people had. “H-h-he’s a-afraid he’ll m-m-miss something.” “That’s for sure.” She tickled Jamie’s belly, loving the way he chuckled, eyes crinkling. Aunt Paula returned to the counter, carrying two coffees in foam cups and a white bag. “There you are, William, your usual coffee, just the way you and Caleb like it. And a couple of crullers to tide you over to lunch.” “D-d-denke.” He handed her the money. With another smile for Jamie, he went quickly out, perhaps relieved not to have to engage in any further conversation. His straw hat shielded his face from Hannah’s view as he passed the window. She stood watching his tall figure for a moment, and then went to get Jamie’s plastic cup of milk from the small refrigerator behind the counter. She focused her mind on him, trying not to let it stray toward those moments on the sidewalk. “Has William always stuttered?” Aunt Paula leaned against the display case, seeming ready for a comfortable gossip. “I don’t know about always. You don’t remember the Brands from when you were growing up?” She shook her head. “I was only eight when we left, after all.” She handed Jamie the cup. Of course Aunt Paula would remember that. How could Paula forget when her beloved younger sister had up and left the community, left the church, left her family, and incidentally left behind all Hannah’s security? “No reason you should, I guess,” Aunt Paula said. “Anyway, it’s a big family, and William is the youngest. His mamm and daad were both sickly off and on, and it seemed like William kind of got lost in the shuffle, what with his oldest brother, Isaac, taking over the farm and always barking orders at the younger ones. I’m not sure when the stuttering started, but it was before William went to school.” Hannah nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. William hadn’t had it easy. “That’s typical. It’s usually in those early years when a child is starting to talk. How did the family handle it? Did they get help for him?” “Not that I know of.” Aunt Paula frowned. “I think the schoolteacher tried to help him, but seems like the other kinder were always impatient, finishing his sentences for him, acting like he was...well, slow.” “I don’t think he’s that.” She’d seen quick understanding in William’s face in their few conversations, even when he didn’t speak. “Ach, William’s bright enough, and the best thing that could have happened to him was going to work with his cousin Caleb in the shop. He’s got a gift with his hands, so Caleb says, and Caleb’s a master woodworker himself, so he’d know. The boy will maybe find a little respect for himself there.” “Not a boy,” Hannah murmured, taking the cup from Jamie, who was nearly asleep on her shoulder. She rubbed his back, cherishing the feel of his small warm body against her. “No, you’re right. He’s not.” Aunt Paula touched Jamie’s brown curls in a quick caress. “William seems younger than he is, no doubt because of the stutter.” Hannah nodded, moving toward the stairs that led up to the apartment above the shop. She would put Jamie in his crib and— “I’m nearly forgetting.” Aunt Paula’s voice lifted. “That’s what you were studying in college, wasn’t it? Before you got married, I mean?” “Speech therapy.” That had been her only goal, until Travis came along. But Travis had loved her. It had seemed meant, that they should love each other and get married and make a home for each other always. Always hadn’t lasted very long. Just a few short years of moving from one Army base to another. She’d been pregnant when his unit shipped out to Afghanistan. Travis had never seen his son, and she’d quickly learned that a mother with a young child and an incomplete education had very little chance of making a home of any kind, even with the military’s death benefits. “You could help William.” Aunt Paula, not able to follow Hannah’s thoughts, smiled broadly. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. You can teach William, help him get over his stutter.” “No, no, I couldn’t,” she said quickly. “I’m not qualified. I never finished, and besides—“ “Well, you’re as near to qualified as William is likely to get,” Aunt Paula said briskly. “It would be an act of charity to help him.” She said it as if that were the defining argument, as it probably was to anyone brought up Mennonite, accustomed as they were to the idea of service. But Hannah hadn’t been Mennonite since she was a child, and as much as she’d like to help, her instincts told her it was a bad idea to get involved in William’s problems. “I really don’t—“ “Just think about it.” Aunt Paula patted her shoulder. “You’ll see I’m right. It would be good for you, too, to make use of your education.” Hannah hesitated, but then she nodded. Agreeing to think about it was easy. Marshaling the arguments against it was more difficult. Especially since she didn’t want to use the strongest one—that she intended to go back to the outside world as soon as she could swing it financially. The familiar worry settled on her, darkening the sunny day. How long could she go on staying here, accepting Aunt Paula’s home and her help, without her aunt expecting Hannah to commit to her way of life?

BOOK GIVEAWAY

I enjoyed running a contest of my own last week, as it was a chance to read so many nice notes from readers as they entered it. Interestingly, there have been some discussions lately among authors as to the value of running book giveaways, with some writers fearing that running a contest may actually discourage potential readers from buying the book as they wait to see whether or not they've won. I guess that's a valid concern, but maybe that's more a question of the timing of the giveaway.

For me, running contests is definitely a worthwhile activity. I'm sure it exposes my books to people who might not have read them yet, and that can only be a good thing! I'm a big fan of libraries for a lot of reasons, but that's one of them. The library patron who borrows one of my books might very well decide to buy the next one, and even if he or she doesn't, I've had an opportunity to speak to them through my book.

So I'm pleased to announce that Berkley Books is offering five copies of my upcoming book in the Pleasant Valley series, HANNAH'S JOY, in a giveaway running now on Goodreads. If you haven't found Goodreads yet, I hope you'll pop over and take a look. It's a great site for anyone who loves books, with plenty of interesting discussions on book-related subjects. Whatever your particular book likes and dislikes, I'm sure you'll find someone there who shares your tastes!

And if you'd like to enter for a chance to win a copy of HANNAH'S JOY straight from the publisher, do go to http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sho... and enter the contest. I hope you win!

Congratulations to the winners!

I've just drawn the winners of the hardcover copy of Vanish in Plain Sight--well, I didn't draw them myself. I had my husband close his eyes and pick two names out of the entrants!

Congratulations to Rebecca at beccakittenmiley@aim.com and to Susan at gotime61@gmail.com. Please send your mailing information to me at marta@martaperry.com, and I'll get your books out to you this week.

And thanks so much to all who entered!

Best,
Marta

Book Giveaway

I just sent the finished manuscript of Home By Dark, the first book in the next Amish suspense series, off to my editor in Toronto. To celebrate, I'm giving away two hardcover copies of Vanish in Plain Sight, the second suspense in my current series. If you'd like to enter, just drop me an email at marta@martaperry.com and indicate you're entering the book drawing.

I'll accept entries until Monday, April 9th, when I'll draw two winners at random.

Best,
Marta

Home Again, Home Again

Home Again, Home Again

Remember the children's rhyme that uses those words? That's about how I every March when we finally reach the last stretch of winding road that leads us home from our winter in South Carolina. Sometimes we've come back to a snowstorm--this year we returned to see the daffodils blooming! Obviously it was a mild winter in Pennsylvania. Was Punxsutawney Phil wrong in his annual prediction?

Coming home after an absence of three months is such a reminder of why we love our place, even though we discovered a leaking pipe in the basement and a ton of small branches that had come down in the yard. I love walking around the house and seeing what has survived the winter (almost everything, it seems) and what needs work (how did that azalea bush get planted so close to the ever-blooming lilac, I wonder.)

And then there's the business of picking up the threads of our lives here: old friends to visit with, volunteer schedules to catch up on, appointments to set up now that we're home.

For me, most important and most satisfying is settling back into my office again. It took me three days to unpack, sort, and put everything away to my satisfaction, but now I feel as if I'd never left. Although I can and do write anywhere--in a moving car, sitting in a waiting room, while watching grandkids play--I feel most productive when I'm settled into my little nest.

So on with the next book!

"The Amish" on PBS

Just a reminder, in case you haven't already seen it elsewhere, that the two-hour long documentary, "The Amish," will debut on American Experience on PBS stations tonight at eight. I've been reading and hearing a lot about this film, and I'm looking forward to seeing it.

The producers were apparently given unprecedented access to Amish communities across the country, and the project took over a year to produce. I've been impressed by the American Experience shows in the past, and I'm sure this one will be done with the same attention to detail and authenticity.

I hope you'll tune in!

Nancy Drew Fans Unite!

I've been thinking lately about the books I read as growing up. Many of them, I realize now, were actually popular a generation before I came across them. Anyone else remember Maida's Little Shop? Or the Outdoor Girls? Or even the Uncle Wiggly stories?

But many hours of my childhood were spent with my best friend, Nancy Drew. Was she your best friend, as well? I have a vivid memory of my first encounter with Nancy. My family had moved to a new town over the summer, and I was finding it difficult to make friends without the common bond of school. In desperation, my mother took me to the library, thinking that might give me something to occupy me until school began. Little did she know what she was starting! For the rest of my childhood, she was constantly telling me, "Put down that book and go out and play!"

That library had a lovely, sunny room for younger children, but it also had some strict rules. Kids were not allowed into the section for the longer chapter books until they had started fourth grade. That sounds so odd to me now, but then I simply accepted it as one of those inexplicable adult regulations that governed our lives. I read my way through most of the picture books that summer, but my attention constantly strayed to those rows of forbidden chapter books.

Finally the day came when I was officially a fourth grader. I roamed through the stacks, gloating over the treasures I found, but the first book I took home was The Secret of the Old Clock. The story mesmerized me. Most little girls, upon reading their first Nancy Drew, wanted to become Nancy. Not me. I wanted to be the one who created those wonderful adventures for her. So, at age eight, I knew what I wanted to do with my life, thanks to Nancy.

Or, more accurately, thanks to Edward Stratemeyer, whose Stratemeyer Syndicate created the series in 1930. Stratemeyer had already launched the Hardy Boys series, and knowing that many girls were reading the books, had the idea of creating a similar mystery series with a girl detective. Stratemeyer initially conceived the plot lines and hired a series of ghost writers to author the books, all under the pseudonym of Carolyn Keene. Those early ghost writers, most notably Mildred Wirt Benson, were paid the magnificent sum of $125 per book, flat fee. During the Depression, that dropped to $100!

Stratemeyer's two daughters eventually took over the line, with Harriet Stratemeyer Adams adopting Nancy. She created the plot lines and wrote many of the books. I was fortunate enough to meet Mrs. Adams at a time when my career was just beginning. She spoke at a small writers' event in New Jersey, and I talked a couple of friends into joining me for the trip from Pennsylvania. That was my first writers' workshop, and I was entranced by every bit of it, but the highlight, of course, was listening to Harriet Adams. She was a lovely, gracious lady, and I treasure the signed copy she gave me of one of the books.

What is it about Nancy Drew that has intrigued and delighted girls for over eighty years? Today there are still new volumes coming out, Nancy Drew games, websites devoted to Nancy, and a vibrant market in Nancy collectibles. Maybe the fascination is that Nancy exemplifies the sort of female all of us yearn to be...capable, intrepid, curious, lively, kind, and ready for any adventure life brings.

Cheers for Nancy--long may she reign!

Do you have a favorite childhood book? Why not find a copy and reread it sometime soon?